


A Bond So Strangely Formed Never Once Dissolves

by LadyChi



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-06
Updated: 2011-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyChi/pseuds/LadyChi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets from Brennan and Angela's friendship... an exercise in writing female-friendship fic to cure my insomnia. Everyone else in the world writes Bones fic when they can't sleep, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bond So Strangely Formed Never Once Dissolves

The first time Angela sees her, she doesn't really get the hint from the Universe that this woman is about to change her life. Instead, she is drawn to her. The woman is standing in front of a painting of a woman embracing air – more shape than true form – done in blacks and greys and wisps of color flying away from the eyes. Angela calls it In Mourning for a Lover, and she'll never confess that it's a self-portrait, but it is.

The woman who has captured Angela's attention hasn't moved in several minutes. Her head is tilted to the side and her eyes take in everything, every little nuance. The first flush of pleasure fades to embarrassment and she starts to wonder if maybe there's something in that painting she didn't see – some flaw easily apparent to those too-serious eyes.

Taking a glass of champagne from the nearest waiter, Angela crosses the room. She stands next to the woman for a moment before taking a sip and turning to her.

“What do you think?” She asks brightly.

“I have taken several courses on art appreciation throughout the years,” the woman says softly, “but I never seem to see what others see.”

“Seeing what others see is overrated and boring,” Angela says with a wave of her hand.

The woman quirks a half-smile and lifts her own glass. “The artist, whomever he or she is, has a very excellent understanding of the human form.”

Angela hasn't learned yet how rare compliments are from this woman, but she's already half-in-love with the awkward honesty she sees before her. “That's an interesting thing to say.”

“I'm a forensic anthropologist,” the woman says, still staring at the painting. “It's my business to understand the human form.”

“In all its beauty and its wonder,” Angela says softly. “So that's, what? Mummies and stuff like that?”

The woman smiles. “When you're fortunate enough to be presented with that type of professional opportunity, yes.”

“You are brilliant,” Angela says with a laugh. “Aren't you?”

“Yes.” The woman turns to her and offers her a hand. “I'm Doctor Temperance Brennan, with the Jeffesonian Institute.”

“I'm Angela Montenegro.” Angela gestures up. “This is my painting.”

“I do not often feel moved by modern art,” Brennan says, “but... standing here, looking at this, I feel sad.”

Angela smiles. “I'm flattered.”

“You should be,” Brennan says, but it's without malice or ego. Just a statement of fact. “You are... extremely talented, Ms. Montenegro.”

“Angela is fine.” She laughs. “Ms. Montenegro sounds way too formal for a starving artist.”

“I would imagine, based on the success of this gallery showing, that you will be able to afford food soon enough,” Brennan says, and Angela can't help it. There it is, she's gone and fallen for a new friend.

**

“Brennan?”

There's a silence on the other end of the phone. “Who's this?”

“It's Angela. Angela Montenegro.”

“Ah. We met at your gallery opening last week.”

Angela laughs. “Yes, yes we did. I was wondering if you wanted to have lunch with me today?”

“I have no prior professional or personal commitments,” Brennan says. “I suspect I would find that pleasant.”

“Sweetie,” Angela says, “a 'I'll meet you at noon' would have been sufficient.”

“I'll try to keep that in mind.”

**

“I hate being high.” Angela's laying on her couch, her foot twitching. “No, that's a lie. I used to love being high. I had this friend in college? Darryl? He didn't have any brain cells but he had connections to the finest weed I've ever smoked. I've never eaten more Funyuns in my life.”

“I've smoked some kinds of medicinal herbs for anthropological field studies,” Brennan admits. They've both come down from the meth, worked a full day and now... now they're waiting on the crash.

“You never smoked pot in college?”

“I never had the time. During my undergraduate career I was not popular with my classmates, and after that...”

“Grad school ate your brain, right?” Angela sighs.

“No, I still have mine.”

“Too literal, sweetie.”

“I thought it might be that. I'm exhausted, Ange.” She rubs her eyes. “Why would anyone do this for fun?”

“Because the part that came before this wasn't all that bad?” Angela laughs. “I felt like I could paint for days.”

“I was extremely efficient as well today,” Brennan says. “Probably a little bit paranoid, though.”

“Downside to everything.” Angela yawns. “Back to a life of clean living tomorrow, though. No more accidental-meth inhalation for us.”

Brennan reaches for Angela's hand and squeezes it. “I'm glad I got to be high with you.”

Angela falls asleep laughing.

**

“What are you working on?” Brennan's standing at her office, where Angela's working on a painting. She doesn't often do that anymore, but... she's just got divorced and ran away from a marriage and lost the man she'd considered a little brother to rationality and everyone around is cutting her a little slack.

“Exorcising some demons,” Angela says, slashing at the paper with grey. Red's not the color of pain, in Angela's mind. Grey is.

“You're speaking metaphorically.”

“Yeah, sweetie, I am.”

“I am finding it extremely difficult to cope with the recent changes to our work environment,” Brennan confesses.

Angela drops her brush and walks across the room. “Sweetie...”

“It is hard when everyone asks me to open up, and I do... and my trust gets betrayed,” Brennan says.

“Sometimes that happens, yeah,” Angela says. “Sometimes... the people we love the most are the people who hurt us the most.”

“Then why bother?” Brennan's eyes are shimmering with tears. “Why... continue to do something that will only cause you pain?”

“Cause pain and joy are the only way to know you're alive.” Angela laughs and brushes Brennan's cheek. “Or so my dad would say.”

“What do you say?”

“I say... that it's worth it. And you'll see that someday.”

“I hope so.”

**

They share a glass of wine before they leave, the two of them in a restaurant, one woman serious-eyed and resolute, the other with her heart breaking in two. And not just for her friend: for herself. After a lifetime of only a sometimes-family, five years of always-family has spoiled her.

“Sweetie...”

“Ange?”

“Just, be careful. When you go, be careful.”

“I will.” Brennan gasps her hand. “Take care of Hodgins for me. He has become... extremely special to me.”

“Of course.” She dips her head, and then the two of them are hugging.

**

In Paris, she paints another picture. This time in golds and oranges and reds. The form of a woman with her arms outstretched up and out to the world, belly softly swelling with child, eyes bright with sunlight. She calls it In Celebration of Evolution, and it's a self-portrait.


End file.
